Like withered leaves,
frolicking to autumn’s eddying air,
I’ll never know,
when will I settle,
satisfy the needs of innate contentment,
accept that the established sentiment,
of yesteryear’s regrets and dispositions,
were brewed; resonance of seasons,
of torment and wholesome blues,
the despair of crouching in broken homes,
lined with vines of toughened roots,
of darkened esteems and confidence,
to approach life.

When will I settle,
heal the chasms of neurotic inanities,
reject the weakened foundations of these paper towns,
glorified by the insatiable greed of paper people,
making cutout love in flimsy suburbia,
that failed to quench the pleas of adam-kind,
to erase the mistake,
of star-crossed sins and entwined hues;
the longing for better times,
to approach life.